


Over the rainbow

by Janice_Lester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-10
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a strange day, and logically assumes there must be evil at work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the rainbow

**Author's Note:**

> Silly. Beta'd by [](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/profile)[ellethill](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/). Spoilers through season 6.

 

The instant Balthazar started looking attractive, Sam knew for sure that he was in another damn alternate universe. Not that he’d never been attracted to other men before (long story), but what reasonable person would think even for a second that this particular angelic dick was a suitable target for any kind of friendly feeling?

But let us back up a bit here. He’d had plenty of clues (besides his sudden desire to shove Balthazar up against a wall and get their frot on) that, for some reason almost certainly having to do with the previously-mentioned Balty, Sam Winchester had innocently woken up in another dimension. A _crazy_ dimension.

First, there was food. In the motel room. Uneaten. Uneaten _junk_ food. Just lying around looking delicious and unhealthy and delicious. Despite the fact that Dean had already apparently woken, showered, and gone on his way (and not even left his damp towels all over the bathroom floor like usual).

Second, there was the diner. Where Dean conspicuously wasn’t. And hadn't been, per the waitress’s complete lack of recollection of anyone fitting Dean’s description (six foot tall, muscular, handsome, kind of a prick) ordering a heart attack breakfast most likely involving bacon, eggs, sausage, and fries.

Third, there was the Impala. It was parked right outside the town library. As if Dean had randomly felt like doing some research. Or checking out a nice post-modern novel.

Fourth, there was the Impala again. Someone had keyed it, leaving a spectacular yards-long gash that crossed three panels, but there was no Dean either wailing over the damage to his baby or else setting his jaw and starting work repairing his baby while soothing her with loving words and gentle, lover’s hands.

Fifth, cases. There weren’t any. And according to the news, the thing they’d come to town to investigate had turned out quite convincingly to have been an unusual coincidence involving a couple having an extra-marital affair being startled by a raccoon in a dumpster during a slasher movie marathon up loud on the neighbours’ TV—no supernatural element at all.

Still, hardly conclusive. Perhaps Dean had turned over a new leaf. Or possibly he was off hunting down the little teenage punk? And weird raccoon-related events _did_ happen now and then, right?

But then there was the radio. This week’s number one hit was actually pretty catchy, and the lyrics rose at least six inches above ‘inane’.

And then there was the newspaper. Paris Hilton’s new movie had been favourably reviewed, with specific reference to the quality of the acting. That annoying sitcom couple had shelved plans to get divorced and were second-honeymooning in the Cayman Islands. And the American quad rugby team had lost spectacularly to Japan, which was apparently completely unheard of and likely to cause coaches’ heads to roll.

He’d called Dean. Who’d answered his phone, laughing, to say that he was having a picnic and would Sam like to join him? So Sam had hurried along to the park behind the library and found his brother and Castiel the angel stretched out on a blanket eating thick, wholesome sandwiches. With vegetables in them. On _brown_ bread. While sharing a tub of potato salad and a large soda with two straws.

This was _very_ odd. Castiel had even taken the trench coat off and was just lying there in his black suit, propped up on one elbow, tie hanging looser than ever.

“Cas? Shouldn’t you be off fighting a war?”

“Heavenly cease-fire. Today is a major spiritual milestone, and no angel will dare shed blood before nightfall.”

Okay, so that was weird but did make a kind of sense. They’d had little truces at Christmas in one of the World Wars, hadn’t they? He turned instead to Dean. “Dude,” Sam had said, by way of making sure this actually _was_ his brother and not some fiendish impostor with a taste for human skin, “someone keyed your car.”

“I know,” Dean replied, and smothered a yawn. “I’ll get to it later. And maybe see if there’s any security cam footage showing me who the hell _dared_ —”

“Dean,” Castiel put in, and then yawned himself. “It’s too nice a day for bloody revenge, don’t you think? I propose we fully commit to this outdoor food consumption ritual. Won’t you join us, Sam?”

“Something’s very wrong here,” Sam said, thinking aloud. “Are we quite sure our friendly neighbourhood Trickster is dead?”

Castiel’s mood visibly deflated a little. “Gabriel is gone, yes. I did not know my brother well, but I miss him. His music is forever lost to us now.” It was just possible his angelic lip wobbled at that.

“Dude,” Dean said, glaring at Sam, “you get tired of stealing candy from small children or something?” And he patted Castiel consolingly on the shoulder with the hand not holding the remains of his half-eaten sandwich.

The strangeness factor around here was fast edging towards creepy. “I think I’ll go and, uh, research or something.”

“You do that.”

When Sam reached the corner and looked back into the park, he squinted against the cheerful morning sun to get a last glimpse of his big brother and their angel pal, and could not be sure they weren’t necking.

_Weird._

So, he’d thought it over on the way back to the motel room. This wasn’t a good, perfect sort of place, which pretty much ruled out Sam’s whole day having been a blood-sucking Djinn’s pacification fantasy. And this wasn’t exactly his notion of Heaven, so he probably wasn’t dead (you know, again). Signs still kinda pointing to the alternative reality option here. So… To the best of his knowledge, the only beings with the power to create new realities or toss people into alternate dimensions were angels. Zachariah, Balthazar, and the Archangel Gabriel had been the culprits the few times—few times too _many_ —that Sam had experienced the phenomenon. And the most recent offender, and the only one still living, was double-shirty Balthazar.

So there was an obvious course of action.

He’d summoned him.

And here he was.

Looking strangely lickable.

“Uh,” Sam said, and had to pause to clear his throat. Twice. “You haven’t, by any chance, thrown me into a parallel universe again, have you?”

Balthazar shook his head and tutted. “That sort of thing takes effort, you know. Though I’m delighted to hear you think so highly of my… potency, I have to ask… Why on this depressing little rock would I go and do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know.” Sam hadn’t actually thought that far. He did so now, rapidly, and began ticking off fingers. “To amuse yourself? Because you hated a movie? Because you needed some dirty work doing and thought you could trick me into it? Because you needed me out of the way? Because I’m a decoy, again? Because you wanted to give Dean one day of perfect happiness and I was just caught in the cross-fire?”

“Well,” Balthazar said thoughtfully, leaning back against the wall and crossing his legs at the ankle, “this _is_ mildly entertaining. Possibly more so than that Paris Hilton flick I was planning to see this afternoon. However, I’m afraid I’ll have to turn some logical light on the situation. If I _had_ thrown you into an alternate universe, why would I have followed you through? If your little hypothesis is accurate, why do you assume I’m the devilishly handsome angel from your home universe and not the even handsomer local version?”

“Shit,” Sam said. The thought of multiple Balthazars would give _anyone_ a headache, right? “I think I need to sit down.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Balthazar cooed. “Let me fetch you something to make you feel all better.” He disappeared, and reappeared almost instantly kneeling in front of Sam’s chair. In the space of two seconds, Sam had an old-fashioned glass-and-mercury thermometer shoved under his tongue, a double bourbon set on the table beside him, and a hand puppet chimpanzee attempting to hug him.

“Sometimes, I can see the merest glimpse of why Cas might like you,” Sam said, removing the thermometer in irritation, and Balthazar smiled. “And then you go and stomp on it.”

Balthazar made the hand puppet all frowny. “If you want my help, Mister Winchester, you’re not doing a very good job of asking nicely.”

“I want the truth.”

“You can’t handle—”

“Yeah, Dean does that one all the time.”

That appeared to take some of the wind out of Balthazar’s sails. “Fine.” He sighed hugely. “I formally deny all knowledge of any plan to shift you to a different universe or to alter this one significantly. I most heartily disapprove of that sort of thing.”

“Sure you do.”

Balthazar clucked his tongue in irritation. “I _fixed_ that little misunderstanding with the boat, remember? So, what seems to be the problem with Sam Winchester’s world, exactly?”

Sam frowned. It was surprisingly difficult to tote up his complaints with Balthazar right there, his lips looking so soft and his stubbled cheeks so disreputable. And hadn’t Sam _always_ wanted to tear that ugly v-neck shirt off the man? But he made a manful effort and recited his list of clues. Food. Car. Library. Picnic. Attraction to—

“What was that? You’re mumbling.”

Sam could feel his face heat. “I, uh, seem to be experiencing some unusual symptoms. Sexual ones.”

“Oh, _really?_ ” He made it sound like that was the best news he’d heard all day. “That could be the crucial clue, Samwise, my good hobbit. Do explain further.”

“Well, someone really, really unlikely is looking really, really fine to me today. Someone, uh, of the masculine persuasion.”

“Ah,” said Balthazar, with a phoney air of great wisdom, “you have finally realised the true depths of your feelings for your brother, young jedi.”

For several moments, Sam’s face was too busy expressing how completely fucking _aghast_ he was for his mouth to cooperate with forming words. So he attempted to cause physical pain to the idiot in front of him with the nearest available weapon. But since the nearest available weapon was a thermometer and the idiot in front of him was an angel, he was not overly successful.

“Do I take it from your inarticulate flailing that I have made a faulty deduction?”

“You do.”

“So it’s Castiel, then? You’ve got the hots for _my_ brother?” More tutting.

“No!” Sam snapped. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I think someone is tired and may need a nap,” Balthazar said, in that exact tone TV parents use on toddlers that makes you want to swoop in and rescue their poor TV kids.

“Look, it’s you, okay? I seem to be finding you attractive.”

Both Balthazar’s brows shot up. “And this is unusual how?”

“As I thought we’d already established, I’m straight. Uh, ish. And you’re definitely not my type.”

“Hmpf. Have a drink, darling, and perhaps you’ll rethink that ludicrous and patently hurtful statement.”

Sam wasn’t sure that drinking was such a great idea when you were trapped in some insane alternate reality with your two main allies having gay sex outside the local library and your only other support a heavenly narcissist. But, on the other hand, it would give him something to do with his mouth that did not involve any part of Balthazar’s body.

He drank. It was _very_ good bourbon.

“All right,” Balthazar said, removing the puppet and tossing it over his shoulder. “Will you accept for the sake of argument that I am innocent of these—” he paused to smirk. It wasn’t pretty “—grave and appalling charges?”

Sam shrugged. What was the use arguing? Balthazar was the kind of asshole who tended to say what he wanted no matter how hard anyone tried to stop him.

“Excellent decision, Sammie dearest.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to perform a spell to determine which angels have influenced you or this place in the last few days.” He raised a hand, then paused. “This does mean I will have to touch you. Please try not to get excited.”

Sam was strongly tempted to poke out his tongue. Instead, he sat patiently to watch and learn while Balthazar disappeared, reappeared with an armful of stuff, put one hand on Sam’s denim-clad knee and began to chant in what seemed to be Enochian (at least, it used that “zood” word that always seemed to come up whenever Cas did this kind of thing). Periodically he’d pick up one of the items he’d got from wherever. One was a tin of cocoa, which he opened one-handed and set down again so he could take up a pinch of the fine powder and spread it around him. One was a small bag of flour, which he paused his chanting to tear open with his teeth. One was a kid’s juice box, which he thrust at Sam. Who figured he might as well have another drink, if it was part of the ritual. This one, at least, was vaguely nutritious.

At the end of the chanting, nothing much happened except that Balthazar looked smugly expectant. Sam employed a little more of the patience he’d inherited instead of the brooding gene Dean had gotten. Then Balthazar snapped his fingers, and suddenly swirls of colours, like the ghosts of neon lights seen when you’re really tired, traced their way through the room. There was a green one, which was pretty much everywhere, tinting Sam himself faintly green and the bed and doorway more so. There was a red one, which seemed to coil mainly around Balthazar, but also dappled the wall he’d been leaning against earlier. And there was a faint smudge of white Sam could see when he looked down, like a hand print over his chest.

“Whoops,” Balthazar said. “That turned out a little more powerful than I’d intended. I believe this one—” he laid his palm over Sam’s chest, and Sam did his darndest to ignore how weirdly electric, in the good way, the touch felt “—is my brother Michael’s. There’s some Lucifer, too, but you can’t see it as it’s on the inside. But not to worry.” He pulled on the nearest length of green, and the whole thing _twitched_ , as if the smokey-bright trails snaking through the room were physical, tangible, a long, fine rope paid out through the room, through Sam’s life. “This is just Cassie, he’s everywhere because he’s living in your brother’s pocket as usual. And this handsome specimen—” he pulled on the red thread “—is my dashing self. But there’s been no one else close enough or influential enough to leave the faintest mark on your aura. So there are precisely two suspects, and you have a problem because I can assure you it wasn’t either of them.”

Despite everything, Sam found himself kinda believing him. But perhaps he was wrong, about who had the power? “Could it have been something else, not an angel? Demons, maybe? A real trickster?”

“Hmpf,” Balthazar said. “You know, I’m not convinced there ever _were_ any real tricksters. There are other things that could do what you’re alleging, I’m sure. But I very much doubt there’s anything that powerful that I wouldn’t smell on you.”

Sam frowned. “Well, what if this is like the whole thing with the _Titanic_? What if the change that started all this didn’t directly affect me at all? What if some rogue angel messed with my father’s life, or his father’s?”

Balthazar was shaking his head. “Time travel requires huge amounts of energy. Every angel would have felt the sudden pull on the Heavenly grid. Unless the angel used his own Grace to power the trip—but even so, I would have felt the loss of that angel’s voice from what you call Angel Radio as soon as he vanished into the past. And my fluffy little brother keeps a _very_ close eye on you boys, closer than you know. I’m sure he would have noticed a change. Besides, were you actually _aware_ that anything had been altered when I, er, pulled my youthful prank and rewrote Hollywood history?”

That was a point. “You can take your hand off my knee now, man.”

Balthazar did his condescending eye-crinkly thing. Sam wanted to slap him. Or, you know, _spank_ him. “Of course, dear.” He made a great show of removing it and placing both hands safely behind his back.

“So, if it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t another angel, and it wasn’t time travel, and it wasn’t some monster you’d smell a mile off, what does that leave?”

“Ah,” Balthazar replied gently. “You’re not going to like this, but I propose a thorough application of Occam’s Razor to your little problem. Are you sitting comfortably?” He stood up, straight and tall and attempting to look imposing instead of, you know, kinda ratty and pompous. “Castiel? A moment of your time, please. Bring your anthropoid dining companion.”

As soon as Sam blinked, there were Cas, Dean, and a picnic hamper. Dean waved at the lingering tendrils of weird angel-string and smirked. “Been redecorating, have you, Sammy? Pity my excellent good taste doesn’t seem to be rubbing off on you.”

“Is there a problem?” Cas growled urgently. “I haven’t heard anything.” He glanced up, as if he could somehow see right through the roof to spot a Heavenly bat symbol or something.

“The Saminator here believes this is some awful other dimension. So if you could just explain where you’ve been today, and why, that would go a long way, I’m sure, towards preventing his poor monkey mind from melting in confusion.”

“We were ‘picnicking’,” Cas said, peering at Sam with some concern. “It was a ‘date’.”

Sam glanced at Dean, who shrugged and appeared to be blushing.

“And how long have you been dating this ape, Castiel?”

“That is… difficult to pin down, precisely. One year?”

“Six months,” Dean put in, at almost the same time.

Sam stared. He couldn’t seem to shut his mouth. Probably looked like some stupid fish dying on the dock. _Six months? Dean had been dating a dude—an ANGEL—for six months—?_ Wow, did they need to work on their brotherly communication skills.

“Up to one entire turning of the Earth around its star,” Balthazar complained, “and you haven’t brought him home to meet the family in all that time?” Sam nodded in frantic agreement. “I’m shocked, brother mine. And wounded, grievously wounded. How _could_ you?”

Castiel appeared to be so busy blushing and admiring his shoes that he didn’t notice how gleeful his Bal-tastic brother looked.

“He’s just blowing smoke up your ass,” Dean offered. Which left Cas looking a whole lot more confused than reassured.

“Anyway, young Sam,” began Balthazar rather grandly, clearly claiming the floor again, “as you can see, the picnic is thus explained, as is the shared soda. They’re already swapping body fluids, so sharing a Pepsi no longer seems terribly intimate. The car was parked at the library because that was the closest parking lot to their intended romantic picnic destination. And Dean put caring about the scratch on hold because he was so girlishly excited at the prospect of a date with his angelic dreamboat.”

“Also, Cas said he’d magic the scratch away later,” Dean put in, and then offered Cas the world’s most goofy smile.

“So, what does that leave?” Balthazar went on. “Ah, yes, the unlikely number one hit. Payola, look it up. Paris Hilton? Well, a really top-notch director can coax a decent performance out of vapid little kids and performing pooches—you’ve seen the _Harry Potter_ and _Beethoven_ movies? So, let’s see… The improbably cancelled divorce? I suspect cherubim influence on that one. They just _love_ love, you know. And your attraction to yours truly—”

Dean, predictably, exploded at this point. “Your WHAT? Sammy, say it ain’t so!”

Yeah, just about then would have been a great time for the ground to open up and swallow Sam whole. He’d probably have thanked it, in the instants before the suffocation and shit.

“Sam has a history of occasional attraction to male-bodied individuals,” Cas helpfully chipped in.

Sam stared. When he finally managed to make his mouth work, his voice emerged as a croak. “Dean, you didn’t.”

Dean scratched diffidently at his hair. “May have mentioned your various sweet little bromances, yeah. Tommy Sims? Brandon Price? And you gotta admit, you _did_ have a thing for a certain Trickster we all knew and, well, knew.”

“I want a new family,” Sam moaned, hiding his heated face in his hands.

“Thank you for that useful clarification, Castiel. Now, as to the specific attraction, I do have a small confession to make.”

Sam’s head snapped up so he could glare suspiciously at sexy angel man. Who was indicating with finger and thumb just how tiny he believed his forthcoming confession to be. “Yeah?”

“I recently changed my aftershave.”

Sam’s heartbeat seemed suddenly very loud in his ears. “What, and the new one is irresistible to humans?”

“Hardly,” Balthazar scoffed. There was a long, long pause that made Sam want to scratch the bastard’s eyes out. Or kiss him very, very thoroughly, until he decided to be forthcoming. “But the old one was rather… human-repellant.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Fuck.

 

 

***END***

  



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